Camp Midgard
by Morwen Tindomerel
Summary: The Norse Camp has become a bit of a cliche in fandom. Here's my version, a place Darker and Grimmer than even the Roman Camp where kids are trained by Tyr, god of heroic sacrifice and Loki, god of cunning and trickery, to hold back Ragnarok.
1. Welcome to the Final Countdown

I hear the Romans' ancient god Saturn, thrown down by Jupiter maybe five thousand years ago, has somehow managed to rise up from the underworld and is set on returning the favor meaning the fall of Western Civilization at the least and the End of the World at the most.

Yawn.

We Northmen aren't much on civilization of any kind and it's _always_ End of the World time for us. The High Gods, the Earth Gods and the heroes they've sired have been holding off Ragnarok – ie: the End of the World – for thousands of years. Someday we're going to fail. Someday the final battle will be fought and the ultimate fate of Middle Earth and Mankind decided - but not today.

Not on my watch.

I am Dane, son of Woden Lord of Asgard and King of the High Gods. I'm Chief of the Asalingas and Captain of the Ulfednar; Binder of Fenris Ulf; Jotun Bane; Ring Giver – and so on and so forth for like a quarter of an hour.

More mundanely I'm Dane Calthorp (a good Northern name that) and I spend about half my life in the Middle Earth of ordinary mankind playing at being a normal teenager and keeping an eye peeled for recruits. We always need more heroes.

It's a dangerous job and a scary one. You will encounter giants, dwarves, elves and monsters of all kinds most of whom will try to kill you. And I almost guarantee you will die young and messily. Believe it or not that's the good part.

The bad part is living with knowledge that the world we know, where our mortal friends and family live, is poised on a sword's edge between ice and fire and that Ragnarok _will_ come, inevitable as winter, and Middle Earth will fall. And in the end all you can do, all any of us can do, is to die bravely in the cause of the gods.

You cool with that? Then you were born to be one of us. You're either the child of a god, like me, or descended from one of the ancient god born lineages or maybe you're Half-Elf or Dwarf or Giant (they're not all unfriendly). You could even be a mortal chosen and blessed by one of the gods for purposes of their own. Whoever or whatever you are your help will be more than welcome.

Don't worry, we'll find you – or something else will.

…..

Like I said Calthorp is a good northern name which has been borne by my ancestors ever since an army of Vikings decided to give up raiding (which is a lot of fun by the way) and settle down with some nice Saxon girls in what is now Norfolk. Yeah, I'm English. My mum and I live on a farm outside a village called Sustead not far from Cromer where I go to the High School though I've missed a few terms lately.

The story in the village is that I spend my summers with my American dad at his place in Minnesota, which is actually true – from a certain point of view. Dad isn't American of course but I usually do see him at least once or twice at camp which is in Minnesota.

Anyway that's how I came to be on an airplane winging my way across the Pond pretending to read my magazine and carefully ignoring the vindvaetter (air spirits) making faces at me through the window. They do this every year and usually I'm the only one aboard who can see them. Not this time.

Somebody started kicking up a fuss several rows forward. Air hostesses converged but it wasn't until I heard a kid literally howl; "Can't you see them? You've got to see them!" that I realized I'd better get involved.

A skinny, kind of undersized kid, maybe fourteen or so, with a mop of dark hair and two red spots burning on his sharp cheekbones proved to be the cause of the disturbance and pretty close to hysterical by the time I got there. Not that I blamed him. Having vindvaetter making faces through an airplane window at thirty thousand feet would rattle anybody. The hostesses of course couldn't see a thing and neither could his seatmate, an elderly lady who starting to look more scared than angry. I tapped a hostess on the shoulder.

"Uh, miss? I'd like to offer my seat to this lady here. I'm sure I can keep the kid calm until we land." I was about two inches taller than she was and probably weighted a hundred pounds more. She thought it was a grand idea and so did the old lady and the other hostesses.

The kid quieted down but he wasn't too intimidated to mutter. "There are _things_ out there, I see them!"

"So do I," I said quietly, "but only people like us can. Don't scare the mortals."

He gulped but whispered back. "What do you mean people like us?"

"That's kind of hard to explain," I answered. I really hate having to go in cold. Kids are usually steered to camp by a parent, a patron god or an elder hero. Most arrive clued up on the big picture at least and a few have even have had some basic weapon or magic training. This kid had the look of a half-Elf, Dokkalfar with that coloring, and somehow he'd fallen through the cracks. I tried one of the usual scenarios on him.

"I'm guessing your dad disappeared when you were a kid and your mum doesn't like you to ask questions about him, right?"

The red spots were fading and he was starting to look more bewildered than angry, "Wrong. Both my parents died when I was little. My grandparents raised me."

Oh. Ouch. That explained everything. "Then I'm guessing something happened. Something weird and scary that made your grandparents remember what your mum or maybe dad told them about a place in America, a special school or camp they should send you to."

"Yeah," he said slowly, "Yeah, you've got it. My Da was very set on me going to this place in the States when I was old enough. He gave Mum money for it and everything. But then they died and Gran and Gramps didn't want to send me so far away. They thought we should save the money for college."

"But something happened. Something really bad or really weird," I guessed.

"Mostly weird," he answered. "But kind of scary. I started having these dreams. There was this girl and she looked just like me, like she was my identical twin sister or something-"

"Your Fetch," I said. And it is _never_ a good sign when your Fetch shows up.

"What?"

"A sort of guardian spirit," I explained. "For some reason they're always of the opposite sex. What did she say?"

The kid shrugged, "She kept telling me not to be afraid and that everything would be all right – but there was nothing to be afraid of and as far as I knew everything was fine!" He swallowed hard again. "Then one morning we got up and there was this huge puddle of blood at the foot of the steps to my room. Well it disappeared while we were looking at it and we decided it'd been a trick of the light striking a dip in the floor or something."

I tried not to roll my eyes. Denial is _not_ just a river in Egypt!

"But then it was back the next morning and the next. And my dream girl was getting kind of frantic. Finally I told my grandparents about her and that she'd said I had to go to America and that's when they told me about Da's camp and the money…and we decided I'd better do like he'd wanted."

"Smart move," I said. "Shame they didn't have any way to contact camp, I could have met you at Heathrow and saved us a scene. What's your name anyway?"

"Skander MacLeod,"

Ah, of course; "From Skye, right?"

"Uh, yeah."

"So you must know all about the Fairy flag of the MacLeods?"

Skander looked over his shoulder at the vindvaetter mowing at him on the wing. "Right. I suppose you're about to tell me that it really is a gift from the fairies?"

"From the Dokkalfar – Dark Elves - actually," I said, "your clan's been mixed up with them for centuries. Your dad was a Dark Elf -" and with that I went into the standard orientation spiel - See above.

….

The air hostess looked kind of shifty eyed when she asked us to please wait until the other passengers debarked before getting off ourselves. I gave her a bright, cheerful smile and when she'd moved on turned to Skander. "Okay, we got to get out of here."

"But – she asked us to wait -"

"Right, for terminal security, we haven't got the time. We've got a bus to catch."

"Bus? What're you doing?"

What I was doing should have been pretty obvious; I was climbing over the back my seat to kick open the emergency door. The slide inflated I grabbed Skander and pulled him after me. He made a bad landing knocking most of the breath out of him.

"Luggage," he wheezed.

"Forget about it," I answered looking around the tarmac for pursuit. "We can kit you out at camp." I saw a tram coming right for us. "Run!"

I guess the tram wasn't about us after all as it didn't give chase. "Well," I said after a lot of dashing and dodging and a few near misses with landing aircraft, "I've got to admit that's one of the easiest escapes I've ever made."

Skander dropped breathless onto the bench inside the bus kiosk. "You…you do this kind of thing often?" he panted.

"All the time," I answered kind of absently trying to watch all directions at once. Skander started as a siren sounded in the distance then it was drowned out by the roar of a deep diesel engine and a grinding of gears as a big silver bus with a longship logo painted on the side slammed to a stop right in front of us.

The doors clashed open. I pushed Skander up the steps ahead of me. The doors closed cutting off the sound of the siren. "Go!" I shouted at the driver.

"Gone!" he answered and hit the accelerator.


	2. Attack of the Smoking Big Giants

We took off like a rocket ship. I just barely managed to keep the third law of motion from sending me through the windshield by catching ahold of the pole and swinging myself into the front seat next to Skander.

"So, who're we escaping from this time, chief?" Seeger asked cheerfully, twirling the wheel as he cut across five lanes and a median stripe to get to the road he wanted.

"Just airport security I hope," I answered, "and don't call me 'chief'. I'm not a Red Indian!"

"The politically correct term is 'Native American'," said Brenda from the seat behind us.

"Ask me do I care?" I turned around to take stock. The usual crowd was all present and accounted for. "Everybody this is Skander Half-Alfar from Skye." I announced to the bus at large.

"Skander, meet Brenda Thorsdottir," she nodded her mop of red hair in a friendly sort of way. "Alfred Freyrsson," Alf's a skinny, undersized fifteen. Freyr's kids always get their growth late. "Craig and Eric Grahame sons of Freyja," and trust me, the Northern goddess of love and beauty is _nothing_ like the Roman Venus. "Ivor Waylandsson," he frowned at the kid, dark browed and massive of shoulder and arm like his father the divine smith. "Joe Eisenhower son of Skuld," another redhead but with a lean and hungry look, he has the bad luck of being able to foresee the future thanks to having a Norn for his mother. "And the Buffy types over there are the three Hildes; Brynhilde, Swanhilde and Ragnhilde."

Skander found his voice; "You've got to be kidding me!"

The girls laughed. "Our mothers are Valkyries," Ragnhilde explained and they all named us 'Hilda' -"

"Which was kind of confusing when we got to camp," Brynhilde continued, "so we got our prefixes, 'Brynhilde' means 'mail coat' Hilde."

"'Ragnhilde' means 'smart' Hilde," that Hilde added smugly.

"And the meaning of Swanhild is pretty obvious," the third of the trio finished.

The bus jolted under us as it took another shortcut over a median. I sighed; "And the guy behind the wheel trying to get us all killed is Seeger Son of the Waves."

"You are such a worrier, boss," he said cheerfully, grinding gears. I tried not to wince.

"Son of the Waves, you mean the sea god?" Skander asked uncertainly.

"Nope, his daughters the Nine Waves," Seeger answered keeping his eyes on the road for a change.

"Which one?"

"All of 'em."

Skander opened his mouth. I shook my head at him. "Don't ask." Exactly how the nine sister goddesses manage to produce one baby between them is a mystery best left unsolved in my opinion.

"Hudson River coming up," Seeger observed casually. "Brace yourselves, folks."

"For what -" Skander began just before the ground fell out from under us.

The bus morphed into a longship in the split second before we hit the water. "For that," I said rather unnecessarily. Skander and I were now sitting on a rowing bench with a long oar magically working itself next to us. The other kids were distributed around the ship about the same as they'd been on the bus except for Seeger who was now standing at the steering oar in the stern.

Skander closed his eyes and looked ever so slightly green. "I know," I said sympathetically. "The shift takes a little getting used to."

"A little?" he echoed disbelievingly then took a deep breath and started looking around. Longships are low slung with sides just a few feet above the water line. Twenty shields lined the gunwales above the oarlocks, ten to a side, painted pinwheel style in red and white. A carved and gilded dragon's head reared proudly in the prow and its tail curled over the stern.

"Nice," he said at last.

I gave him an approving grin. "You're going to do fine."

"Hey, boss," Seeger called from the back, and he sounded worried which was not like him at all.

"'Scuse me," I went to see what was wrong. Alf slipped into the seat I'd just vacated. Like me he could sense trouble in the air.

'Trouble' was putting it mildly. There was a longship following us, a _huge_ longship roughly the size of the QEII and surrounded by clouds of steam which was a new one on me.

"Fire giants," said Seeger. I looked at him in surprise. I'd had more experience of Frost giants than I cared to remember but I'd never so much as seen the Muspelheim variety. Fine, I'm always up for new experiences.

"Battle stations!" I shouted. "Alf, I need a good fireproofing spell _now._ Skander, grab a shield and get back here."

The Hildes swarmed up the mast, straddled the yardarm and pulled out their bows. Alf started drawing glowy runes in midair with his staff while Brenda and the rest of the guys lined up amidships, forward of the mast.

Skander came trotting up eclipsed behind a shield three feet across. "Right," I said to him. "Kid, I need you to cover Seeger. We can't lose our steersman." Then I headed forward twisting a rune engraved iron ring on my finger. Garm, formerly the sword of Sigurd now my sword, manifested itself settling in my hand like a natural extension of my right arm.

The giant ship pulled alongside and its crew peered over the side at us waving fiery axes and swords. Forget Jack and the Beanstalk, a real giant is only half again as big as a big human being, say ten feet tall tops. These guys were burnt black by the fierce heat of their homeland, had shaggy red air and beards and red glowing eyes – oh joy.

A few of those eyes were promptly put out by our archers in the rigging before their comrades vaulted the side of their ship to drop into ours. The biggest landed right in front of me and somehow I didn't think that was just a coincidence.

"Name yourself, Chief of Warriors," he roared in a voice like an open flame. "I would know who I kill!" modest much?

I replied in the traditional manner – far be it from any hero to give a straight answer to a straight question: "I am Grim the Binder, Jotun's Bane; Son of Grimnir the Wise; I am the great wolf, lord of the North Wood; Chief and best of the Ulfednar; I am the glutter of ravens who follows Gungnir's flight; The Irongrip of the Dwarves."

My giant opponent broke into a broad white grin. "Well met, Dane Wodensson!"

I've got to work on my kennings. They're not supposed to be that easy to guess. The flaming axe came for my head and I settled down to business. Understand this; I love to fight. Suddenly everything becomes simple; no ambiguities and no uncertainties; him or you; Midgard or Vahalla. Fighting is easy. Dying, when I come to do it, will be easier still. It's living, strategizing, _leading_ that's tough.

The Muspelheimer smelled like gasoline and radiated so much heat I was running with sweat in seconds. On the other hand nothing was catching fire so I guessed Alf's spell was working. Thanks to the Jotnar I know _all_ about fighting oversized, axe-wielding opponents. It didn't take Mr. I-would-know-who-I-killed long to make number two of the four fatal mistakes that get giants offed.

War axes have a this long, evil spike on top that can be used to stab which was exactly what my Muspelheimer decided to do when his swinging strokes kept getting blocked. The split second distraction as he adjusted his grip was just the opening I needed.

Gram went in under the short ribs and I cut upward slicing through his big barrel of a chest. Flames spouted out instead of blood, spreading over his body until he went up like a torch.

"Still glad you met me?" I asked. The ashes didn't answer they just blew away. I looked around taking stock. No heroes were down and there were little dust-devils of gray ash all over the place. Seeger had somehow managed to disengage and outdistance the giant longship as it was nowhere to be seen.

Then Joe shouted; "Firedrake coming in at four o'clock!"

Brenda squeed, no I swear she really did, "Dibs on the dragon!"

"Greedy," said Alf shifting his grip on his staff.

"That fire retardant spell still working?" I asked him.

"Gods I hope so!" he answered fervently

Up in the rigging the Hildes let fly with another volley but their arrows flamed and disappeared inches from the firedrake's glittering scales.

"Hey! Stop shooting at my dragon!" Brenda shouted waving her two bladed axe threateningly – at the Hilde's not the dragon.

"Please tell me it's not going to try to land on us," I groaned to the Grahame brothers who'd come up on either side of me, getting closer to the action.

It wasn't. It barreled down swooping low and forcing everybody to kiss the deck, except for Brenda who made a wild pinwheeling slash at it – and missed – as it breathed fire over us all. Luckily Alf's spell was still working.

The firedrake's wings cupped, grabbing air as it gained altitude and turned for another run,

Brenda jumped up on a rowing bench waving her axe wildly. "Hey! hey you, hot and ugly, over here!"

Craig and Eric shared an eyeroll across me and I silently agreed with them. Thor's kids are not exactly famous for their good sense. On the other hand they _are_ known for killing dragons which was one good reason for staying down and letting Brenda sort it. The fact that she'd take her axe to us if we went for 'her' dragon was the other.

The firedrake passed overhead with a roar of heat, like when you throw gasoline on fire, and I heard a solid 'thunk' as Brenda's axe connected. Risking a look I saw the dragon flying unsteadily off our starboard bow, sort of staggering in midair, as gouts of flame leapt from a deep cut just where shoulder and neck net. It attempted a third run but couldn't keep altitude, crashing against the side of our longship and almost capsizing us, before vanishing in a ball of fire.

"Yah!" Brenda did a little victory dance. "Just call me Brenda Dragon-bane!"

"Watch the axe!" I snapped, then; "casualties?"

"No."

"Nope."

"Fine here."

"Wow!" that last was from Skandar. The kid looked hyped rather than scared, yup definitely one of us.

I tilted my head back for a view of the Hildes on the yardarm. "You girls stay up there and keep an eye open for any more nasties. Seeger, camp - best possible speed!"


	3. Lunch At Camp Madhouse

Even in a magic longship it takes a few hours to get from New York City to upstate Minnesota. Eventually the winding rivers gave way to the choppy, ocean-like waves of the Great Lakes and finally to the heavenly blue waters of Nine Sisters Lake with the camp dock right in front of us, a row of boat houses stretching away to the left and the observers' stand for longship battles on the right. We disembarked and the others headed out in all directions but Skander stuck as close as a conjoined twin. I let him because I remembered my own first glimpse of camp only too well. I'd been a skinny undersized eleven when I'd arrived and I couldn't see the forest for the huge, buff kids fighting with swords, axes, fists and anything else you cared to name. Intimidating? Oh yes! Camp had seemed like a chaotic place – _violently_ chaotic. Which was quite unfair; violent, yes, chaotic not so much – just very, very busy. Now, five years later, I could see the pattern and underlying order to all the activity. I inhaled a lungful of the wood smoke and conifer smell of camp and started up Asa Row towards the Mootgarth with Skander playing my shadow.

Maybe I'd better give you a quick sketch of the layout of Camp Midgard: Mimir's Tree stands in the exact center of camp, a giant ash spreading its boughs and its magical protection over us. Between it and Tyr's Hall is an open green called the Mootgarth because that's where we hold our councils or 'moots'. The Hall is where we take our meals. Campers sleep in wood framed canvas tents with board floors raised a meter or so above the ground. Many have front porches, and some back porches as well. A couple of dozen or so tents are set up along the dirt track called Asa Row leading from the docks to the Mootgarth and a similar track on the other side leading to the Bridge is called Vana Row. But most kids have tents in the woods, clustered loosely around the Mootgarth and the rows. The entire camp is encircled by a sort of defensive moat fed by the spring rising from below the roots of Mimir's Tree and emptying into Nine Sister's Lake. There, that should be enough for basic orientation.

There was a crowd of Svinfylking *1 bruisers doing gymnastics in full armor on the row's training ground. And somebody had to be putting together a mounted exercise from all the horses milling around. As usual the track was almost as crowded as a city street with people going places, doing chores or just hanging out, and battling pairs of training warriors ducking and dodging and generally getting underfoot. *2

"_All_ these people are half god?" Skander panted.

I slowed down so he could keep up. "Well no. Some are more distant descendants and we've got half-Alfar like you, even some half-giants."

Skander focused on a seven footer crossing our path surrounded by a bevy of regular sized kids looking like ten year olds in comparison. His eyes glazed a little.

"Yeah, like Donald there," I said.

"Oh," he said and turned his head to go on staring.

I had a good look around myself. Hugo Tavernier, Captain of the Berserkers *3, was hammering away on an anvil set up next to his tent with this ferocious frown on his face, must have broken another sword. Somebody had set up a Nithing pole – a sort of public insult – alongside the track. I'd have to find out what that was all about. Then a flight of arrows arched across the row less than a foot from my nose.

"Hey!" I shouted, "Archery ground is behind Mimir's Tree, remember?"

The girl in charge, a swan-may *4 named Gretel (and no she doesn't have a brother named 'Hansel'), pouted. "The Ulfednar *5 grabbed it."

"First come, first served, you know that," I answered. "No archery near the tents!"

"Are you in charge around here?" Skander asked as we finally reached the Mootgarth. There was a caber tossing going on but he didn't seem to notice.

"Gods' forbid!" I said with deep feeling. "But I'm captain of the Ulfednar – one of the warrior gangs we have here – and Chief of the Asalingas – the descendants of the High Gods I mean."

"So you're kind of an officer?"

"Something like that," I admitted and pointed at the biggest building in camp. "Hungry? We can get some lunch there."

The Hall of Tyr is about a hundred feet long and half as wide, wood framed like the tents with a deep eaved tin roof and canvas sides that we can roll up if we want more air. It stands sideways to the garth with porches covering the doors at either end. Behind it there's another area of open meadow bordering the lakeside that we use for training exercises where a girl, lithe dark and _fast_ was holding off half a dozen guys.

"Hold!" I thundered in my best 'command voice' (it's not so much a matter of volume but of projection) everybody froze mid-stroke and looked at me. "Sorry to interrupt," I said, "but I need my second in command, please."

"Take her," one of her assailants answered. "She's embarrassing us."

Dagny smirked, sheathed her sword and trotted over. "What can I do for you, oh Ring Giver?"

I've had three seconds in as many years. The first one died saving my life; the second one ditto. Dagny is under strict orders to let me die. I've cheated Valhalla long enough if it comes to that. "Dagny Heimdallsdottir meet Skander Half-Alfar of Skye, he's new."

"Yeah, I could tell by the bugging eyes," she gave the kid a reassuring grin. "You get used to it, honest."

Skandar looked at me. "Am I that obvious?"

I shrugged. "Not really, but we know just how you're feeling. It was the same for us."

"Even you?" he sounded kind of incredulous.

"No," I answered. "For me it was worse." I led the pair of them into the shady depths of the hall.

Dinner is our only sit-down meal. Breakfast, lunch and between meal snacks are all laid out buffet style in huge platters and jugs on the lower tables. You take what you want and find a place on the upper tables. The Hall is always crowded. Training gives you a serious appetite. So does dying.

Skander eyed the other kids with a frown creasing the space between his eyebrows. Finally he asked; "What's with the bling?"

I shared a grin with Dagny. We dress pretty much like other kids at camp, except for the armor of course, but everybody in sight other than Skander and me was loaded down with gold arm rings and neck torcs. The effect can be kind of startling, especially on big beefy guys.

"Awards of valor," Dagny explained. "Like medals but flashier."

"Yeah," Skander agreed with some feeling.

"Northern warriors don't do understated," I told him, then said to Dagny; "Anybody else mention Muspelheimer trouble?"

She looked at me blankly. "What?"

"Obviously not," said Skander.

Dagny punched my arm – hard. "What are you talking about?"

I rubbed my bicep. "Where's Tyr?"

"That bad?" her expression turned worried. "Last I heard he was refereeing a fortress assault."

….

Tyr is our camp director. That's Tyr as in the god they named Tuesday after, the one handed god of heroic sacrifice. He's a big, tough, sad looking man, apparently middle aged, usually dressed in gray sweats.

The exercise was coming to an end as we jogged up. They'd reached the tying up wounds and loading people on stretchers stage. Skander turned green as an unconscious camper was carried past him with a spear sticking out of his belly.

"Don't worry," I told him. "Nobody ever dies at camp." Not permanently anyway. He gave me this look of disbelief. "No really. The infirmary will fix him right up. He'll be good as new and starved by dinner time."

"There's Tyr," Dagny said pointing.

He was talking to a hulking redhead wearing a bearskin over his mail coat; my best mate Brody the Berserk who judging from his sheepish expression – and the blood on his hands and face – had just gone bear on some poor kid or kids.

"I'm sorry, Tyr," he was saying as we came up to them.

The Camp Director folded his arms and breathed out a sigh of controlled annoyance. "It is not a matter for sorrow, Brody. It is a question of _control_. Your human mind _must _remain in charge. To give way to your bear-shape's instincts will be fatal, to your opponent yes but eventually to you as well. I want my students to go to Valhalla but not by way of their own folly!"

"Yessir," Brody hung his head.

Tyr looked over him at us. "Wipe your face, Brody. You are disturbing our new camper." He smiled kindly at Skander then turned his piercing gray-blue eyes on me. "What has troubled you, Woden's son?"

I told him in considerable detail. He took it with a grim, set expression that did not reassure me. "For centuries the Fire Giants have been held in check by the Jotnar *6. Now that the Ice Giants have been weakened the Muspelheimers again have opportunity to attack Middle Earth."

I huffed out a sigh. "Great. So it's my fault."

Tyr shook his head, a hint of a smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Don't be so quick to take blame on yourself, Dane."

"Right, sure." I said, totally unconvinced. Tyr and Dagny shared a _very_ expressive look and Brody rolled his eyes. Okay, so I've got a guilt complex, I mean it's not like the fate of the World _doesn't _rest on me is it?

…

NOTES:

_Svinfylking_ (Boar Followers) one of the four warrior gangs. Dedicated to the god Freyr. Their boarskin cloaks give them the power to transform into boars.

If this description reminds you of the Camp Half-Blood in the movie, you're right. I based the look of Camp Midgard on that.

_Berserker_ (Bear Shirts) another warrior gang, this one dedicated to the god Thor. Guess what they change into.

Swan-may – a woman who can turn into a swan thanks to a magic cloak. The third gang at camp is the _Flidrirekkir_ (Feathered Warriors) whose patron is the goddess Freyja. Flidrirekkir wear magic cloaks of swan or falcon feathers.

_Ulfednar _(Wolf Men) The chief of the four gangs thanks to its dedication to Woden. Its members are distinguished by their wolfskin cloaks and shape the wolf.

_Jotnar_ plural of Jotun, the Frost Giants.


	4. A Hero's Best Friend Is His Wolf

You can room with us until you get acclimated," I told Skander as we walked back to the rows. He shot a nervous look at Brody and I grinned; "Don't worry, he's mostly harmless."

"I promise not to go ursine on you," my mate added. For some reason Skander did not look reassured.

Suddenly Tyr, who'd been walking behind us talking to Dagny called out, "'Ware, Dane!"

Not soon enough. The next instant I was hit by a wall of brindled tawny-gray fur, knocked flat on my back and nearly smothered by a huge, pink tongue. "I'm glad to see you too, Fenrir," I wheezed as soon as I could get some breath back in my lungs. Brody pushed the great wolf off me, which took some doing, and hauled me to my feet.

Fenrir gamboled around us like a super-sized pup and I noticed that Tyr and Dagny were holding Skander back bodily which impressed me as Fenrir stands six feet at the shoulder and is maybe twice that from nose to tail. "It's okay," I told the kid, "Meet my friend Fenrir Ulf. Fen, this is Skander Half-Alfar."

"_Well met, Skander. Any friend of Dane's is a friend of mine!"_

The kid's eyes bugged out as Fenrir's voice sounded in his head but he recovered fast. "Um, thanks, same here."

Fenrir nuzzled Tyr, nearly knocking him off his feet, and was patted in return. Then he let Dagny stroke his nose. She's so slight and slender I think he's afraid he'll break her if he treats her as roughly as his other friends. As if.

Tyr had more fights to referee and Dagny wanted to get back to ruining moral among the Ulfednar (because nothing hurts a guy's pride like having a pretty girl hand him his butt – though gods know we should be used to it around here). But Fenrir tagged along as we took Skander into the camp store to get outfitted.

It's a big, warehouse type building on the Vana Row side of the Mootgarth with plank walls and a tin roof like the hall. Inside it's lined with shelves and more stuff is piled on big square tables standing in the middle of the room; t-shirts, jeans, sweats, sneakers, combat boots, bedding, toiletries and just about anything else a budding hero might need. The Vana goddess known as the Giver of Gifts is shopkeeper and our assistant camp director. She's tall and lovely with dark ash blond hair - the color they call wheaten - and gray eyes. Half the boys in camp are crushing on her at any given time. The girls of course tend to crush on Tyr. As usual she was doing inventory with a wand (the magnetic not magic kind) and Tablet. She looked up inquiringly as we entered, or rather Brody, Skander and I did. Fenrir stayed in the doorway with his head sticking inside, tongue lolling and dripping on the wooden floor.

"Greetings Gefjon," I said. "We have a new camper to equip."

She was unsurprised. A lot of kids arrive with nothing but the clothes they stand up in and maybe an ancient weapon or two. She gave Skander a professional once over. "Hmmm…size 6 small. Any color preferences?"

"Um…no?" he said uncertainly.

Gefjon whisked around plucking shirts and jeans off the shelves, packing a toiletries bag, and neatly piling bedding on the counter. "That should do it," she said.

Skander took out his wallet; "Uh, how much?"

"No charge," Gefjon said cheerfully.

"It's store as in 'storehouse' not 'shop'," I explained.

It was getting on towards sunset so I decided to leave the visit to the armory for tomorrow. Brody and I took our new roommate directly to our tent which stands at the Mootgarth end of Asa Row. All the tents are big enough to sleep six comfortably, though few have more than four campers, but they are nowhere near big enough for Fenrir who all but knocked me off my feet with a final, wet kiss then headed for the hall.

My tent has the blue banner of the Asalingas and the wolf standard of the Ulfednar displayed in front of it. Inside there are three bunks in three corners, each with its footlocker, and three camp chairs around the stove in the center. My spear and shield, mail shirt and helmet were hanging over the head of my bunk just as I'd left them last winter and my wolfskin cloak was spread over my blanket. Brody dropped his bearskin on his bunk and hung up his own mail before digging in his footlocker for fresh clothes and a towel. I pointed Skander to the spare bunk and left him to put his stuff away while I dug out a change of clothes for myself and a towel, then we headed for the bathhouse.

Here's something I bet you didn't know; Northern heroes are real clean freaks. Our Viking forbearers were seriously popular with the Saxon and Frankish girls because they bathed regularly and combed their hair. The big bathhouses are down by the lake, one for guys one for girls. They have sauna rooms, cold showers and hot tubs and lots and lots of sinks and mirrors. What, us vain? Well maybe a little.

We dress for dinner at Camp Midgard. Not black tie of course but clean jeans or chinos and button down shirts. Skander looked on in bemusement as Brody and I donned our 'bling'. In my case that means a heavy chieftain's torc (there's a circlet too but I only wear that on the most formal of occasions), the massive gold arm ring marking me as Odin's Champion my captain's torc and assorted other bangles. I guess we did look a little strange, or rather would anywhere but here.

The lake was all golden with sunset when we came out of the bathhouse but it was getting dusky under the trees. Red-gold firelight streamed through the open sides of Tyr's hall with figures moving like shadows against it. Inside log fires were blazing in the two brick lined hearths down the center of the hall and torches burned in sconces attached to the wooden pillars that held up the roof and divided the place into a middle section and two aisles. The aisles are where the tables are, two rows of them on either side, set one above the other on these stepped platforms. The place was crowded as summer is our peak time with over three hundred campers. People were finding their seats, the girls even more glittery then the guys. Some even go so far as to wear dresses. At the far end of the hall the directors' table stood crosswise on the dais with Tyr and Gefjon sitting in their high seats behind it. I led Skander towards it as the new kids always sit at Tyr's table.

"The redhead with the long nose on Tyr's right is Loki and that's Signy, his wife, next to him -" I began.

"Wait a minute," he interrupted me. "Isn't Loki down in Niflheim with snake venom dripping on his face?"

"Used to be, he's on parole as our activities director. He says as eternal torments go he prefers the venom." I rather like Loki. Okay you can't trust him as far as you can throw him but he's pretty entertaining to have around and he's taught us all some really useful tricks and stratagems.

"Signy is our infirmarian," I continued. "And the giant on the end is Baugi, one of our trainers. The woman next to Gefjon is the sorceress Groa, she teaches magic, and the two dwarves are Brock and Sindri they teach smithcraft." Auvrendil, our instructor in ship handling, is never at dinner being the god of the evening and morning star (yes, just like Earendil - and there's a reason for that).

"Lord Tyr," I said formally when we reached the table. "I present to you Skander Half-Alfar, Asalinga and Ulfednar."

He gave the kid one of his rare smiles; "Welcome, Skandar, sit here opposite me." He turned the smile on me and there was a hint of mischief in his eye. "Dane Wodensson Chief of the Asalingas, greet your sister; Wendy Wodensdottir."

My jaw dropped. Sister? A small girl with blond braids turned on the bench to give me a dark frown. No, actually she wasn't frowning at all but her long heavy eyebrows gave the impression that she was. She had freckles on her nose and an unsettling steel gray stare. I managed to close my mouth and swallow. "Welcome, Wendy."

She nodded solemn acknowledgment but said nothing. Clearly my new kid sister was not a talker. I couldn't think of anything else to say either so I bowed to our camp directors and headed for my own seat.

As chief of the Asalingas I have the place of honor in the middle of the center front table on the north side of the hall. My chair is a huge ornately carved throne of time darkened oak with dragons' heads on the arms and my great deeds etched on ivory plaques and set in the high back. I settled myself in it, it's not what you'd call comfortable but I'm used to it, and looked around.

Pretty much everybody had found their seat by now. Dagny slipped into her place on the bench to my left. She was looking very nice tonight, I was sure I hadn't seen that strappy halter top before. I notice how Dagny looks _all _the time but starting a relationship with my second in command just seems like a bad idea. Besides I think Brody likes her – not that she's shown any interest in either of us. Speaking of Brody he was was sitting several spaces down on the bench to my right below Hugo, captain of the Berserks. My table only has seats down one side so I was able to look directly across the hall to the table and high seat of the chief of the Vanalingas.

You see just as the gods are divided into two clans; the High Gods or Aesir and the Earth Gods or Vanir, we campers are divided into Asalingas (Asa-offspring) or Vanalingas (Vana-offspring) depending on which kind of god is our parent or patron. As I've mentioned several times now I am chief of the Asalingas, my counterpart, colleague and rival is Trudi Freyjasdottir Chief of the Vanalingas and Captain of the Flidrirekker.

Like all children of Freyja she's a real looker; tall and willowy, icy blue eyes, thick wavy flaxen hair, a milky complexion not yet kissed golden by the sun…. yes I am waxing poetic. I'll stop now. Anyway she was wearing a metallic tank over a black one and even more gold than I was; in addition to her chieftain's and captain's torcs she had chains strung with talismans and amulets hanging around her neck. Golden bracelets covered her arms to the shoulder, amber drops dangled from her ears and large chunks decorated the rings on every finger along with garnets and beryls. More jewels adorned the belt of braided gold clasped by interlocking cats heads around her narrow waist –

Hugo elbowed me hard in the ribs. "Hey, Dane, you're staring."

I gave him my best 'die now' glare but his grin just got wider. Luckily the food arrived just then saving me.


	5. Partying Like It's 1999

The underside of the tin roof reflected the glow of fires and torches back down on us turning the hall into an island of warmth and light as night deepened around it. Landvaetter, the invisible guardian spirits of the camp, do the serving. First solid gold plates and drinking horns appear on the tables and then the serving bowls and platters. The dinner menu is always the same, Gefjon's idea of a good meal being pretty much what our ancestors would have eaten in their halls a thousand years ago. It is very high in protein and high carb. There are huge joints of roast beef and pork and venison, whole chickens and geese, mounds of salad (yes, the Vikings ate salad!), cooked mushrooms and peas, fruit pastries, half a dozen different kinds of bread and rolls and plenty of butter and honey. Our drinking horns magically fill themselves with whatever you want to drink. As always we campers fell on the food like so many starving wolves. Real, and very well fed wolves circulated among the Asalingas' tables nosing for handouts. Across the way the wildcats of Freyja were doing the same, and Fenrir was stretched out below the high table happily crunching half a cow, bones and all.

I quaffed ginger beer from my horn – words like 'quaff' just automatically pop into your head when dining in Tyr's hall – then sawed a roast goose in half with my knife and transferred it to my plate along with a loaf of rye bread and a couple of pounds of salad. I wasn't very hungry. A sense of impending disaster has that effect on me.

Glancing around I saw none of the others from the ship seemed similarly bothered. Brenda was ripping mouthfuls of pork off her spareribs just down the board from me but the rest were across the hall in plain view at the Vanalingas' tables. The Hildes were engaged in a food fight with a trio of Svinfylking on the back benches. And judging from his gestures Seeger was describing the longship battle to his friends. The Grahame brothers were making kissy faces at some girls on my side of the hall and Alf was having a marrowbone swordfight with the kid next to him. In other words everybody was acting normally. Yeah, meals tend to be kind of rambunctious here at Camp Midgard.

Then my eyes met those of Joe the Seer, son of Skuld, and he gave me a little nod and a look that said, 'yup, things are going to get worse', terrific, just terrific. I looked towards the high table. Skander was waving a large drumstick around as he talked and both Tyr and Loki were listening intently, another bad sign. Who or what had Skander's Fetch killed before it could get him? And did his troubles tie in with the Muspelheimers? Stranger things have been known.

Dinner is only the start of the evening's festivities. If no night exercises are scheduled the party begins as soon as the empty plates etc. are whisked away by the invisible Landvaetter along with the tables leaving us sitting on our rows of benches with our drinking horns in hand. Gefjon rose from her high seat to bestow the cup honors and we stood with her, waiting at attention as she filled Tyr's horn first of all from her golden beaker.

"Drink deep of Valhalla's golden mead, Tyr, Lord of Valor, King of heroes," she said and moved on to Loki. "Drink with us, Trickster, and remember thy allegiance," she added pointedly. He rolled his eyes.

Gefjon came down the two steps of the dais and crossed to me. I held out my horn to be filled. "Quaff the mead of heroes, Dane Wodensson, great of fame. Deeds of danger call you, may fortune guide your good blade."

"Thanks a lot," I muttered and she smiled. Yep, I was for it, no mistake.

She crossed the hall to pour for Trudi. Then she went back and forth a few more times filling the horns of the captains and those who had won honors in the day's exercises ending with Brenda Thorsdottir: "Hail Dragon's Bane, worthy daughter of a mighty father!" Bren grinned so hard I thought she'd break her face. Gefjon went back to her high seat and poured mead into her own horn, at the same time magically filling those of all the kids who hadn't qualified for cup honors.

Tyr raised his horn; "To Woden Allfather, King of the Aesir!" and we all drained our cups. Mead is thick and sweet and filled with power, like liquid sunlight. I could feel myself glowing as it coursed through my veins. The emptied horns refilled and Tyr offered the second toast; "To Njord Earth Lord, King of the Vanir!" We finished off our second horns and let them refill for the final toast; "To Heroes fallen in the cause of the gods!"

Men die. Cattle die. Even the gods will die. Only glory lives forever.

After three hornfuls we were all pretty full of mead and had to sit still for a bit to give it time to work. Like Gefjon said this is mead from Valhalla, the same as the Einherjar*1 drink. Don't worry, it's not alcoholic – it's much more powerful than that. It feeds the spark of the divine inside us increasing our strength and our power. Thanks to it we can survive hits that would kill a mortal, heal superfast, run all night and fight all day – in short pretty much everything the heroes in the sagas could do. But the first effect is a feeling of warmth and lassitude.

Brendan Bragisson, one of our best skalds, picked up the harp at his feet and sat himself on a stool in the middle of the hall between the two firepits. He struck the 'attention' chord and sang:

"Fenrir the Great Wolf – Woden's fearsome Bane

In Shadowhame lay he – Sword pierced and howling -"

I groaned and covered my eyes. I knew what was coming. So did Fenrir; his head came up eyes gleaming and tongue lolling in a canine grin – he just loves hearing what a badass monster he is. But I don't much like being reminded of my first quest. To begin with it wasn't really my quest at all. I was just along as an armor bearer.

As I've mentioned before I was only eleven – and undersized with it – when I first came to camp and I was scared to death of the other kids, all of who were much bigger and usually armed. The then chief of the Asalingas and Captain of Ulfednar, Sieg Gotteschilde, took me under his wing and I clung to him like a drowning man clings to a float. So when we got word that Fenrir Ulf had broken his chain and Sieg was given the job of rebinding him I begged so hard to be taken along that he gave in and agreed. Eight other warriors, two from each gang, the best at camp were chosen by Tyr as Sieg's companions. And one by one we lost them; to giants, to trolls, to worms, to every monster you can think of until only Sieg and I were left. And then we discovered that we had worse problems then a giant wolf with a grudge running loose in Nifleheim. The Jotnar were ready to launch Ragnarok. After which Sieg was killed too leaving nobody but a shrimpy eleven year old to stop them. Not good doesn't even begin to describe it.

So I went looking for Fenrir. Yes, you heard correctly I actually _wanted_ to find a six foot at the shoulder, howling mad wolf. Well it wasn't like I had a chance in Nifleheim of accomplishing anything alone was it? Luckily for me I was too small for Fenrir to take seriously as a threat – or even a snack. I talked fast and hard and happily for Middle Earth Fen decided he wasn't quite ready for Ragnarok himself and agreed to help, though I suspect my plan to use the chain forged to re-bind him to seal the gates of Jotunheim instead was the real selling point. Of course it wasn't that easy but in the end we succeeded after which we swore blood brotherhood and Fenrir promised not to eat my dad come Ragnarok as a personal favor to me. Anyway that's our story, shorn of the poetry, and I can seriously live without being reminded of it. Fen on the other hand enjoyed every note and fairly smothered the skald with his big wet tongue when it was over. So Brendan gave us the story of Fenrir and Tyr's hunting trip to the Ironwood for an encore.

By the time he'd finished his second number the mead had taken hold and the campers were ready to _par-ty_! If you were to down say six super-caffeinated espressos in a row you'd have a glimmer of an idea of how we were feeling. Even I stopped worrying – and I am a major league, big time worrier. Ask anybody at camp.

Aideen Half-Alfar skipped down from the Vanalingas' benches with her fiddle on her shoulder and danced the length of the hall tossing her quicksilver mane of hair to her skirling tune. The other musicians among us joined in with everything from harp to bagpipe, others provided percussion by stamping and clapping, and dancers twisted and whirled and jigged between the two fires.

So the world was coming to an end, what else was new? I tossed aside my sense of responsibility and crossed the hall to ask Trudi for a dance.

….

NOTES:

_Einherjar_ are the chosen heroes housed by Woden in Valhalla and by Freyja in her hall of Folkvang.


	6. We Talk To Trees And They Talk Back

"How much sleep did we get last night?" Skander asked.

"Oh, about three or four hours," I answered absently focused on the tricky business of shaving with a straight blade. I use an electric razor at home but the magical energies we deal with at camp do weird things to electronics.

"That's what I thought. So how come I feel great?"

"'Cause of the mead," Brody answered dropping his wet towel over the kid's head. "It charges us up."

Skander pulled off the towel not seeming at all bothered about it which was good. I'd have to keep an eye on Brody though. He's no bully but like most of Thor's kids he's not what you'd call a sensitive guy and can be rougher on the new campers then he means to be.

We left the bathhouse and headed across a mootgarth already full of training warriors towards the armory.

"You're just under the average age," I told Skander. "Most of the kids here are between fifteen and seventeen. We almost never have campers under twelve or over twenty."

"I thought you said you were eleven?"

"I was," I answered a little grimly, "And a textbook example of _why _we don't like to take campers that young. This is no place for little kids."

Skander winced as two lines of spearmen met with a roar and a clang of shields. "I agree."

The armory is one of the most interesting buildings at camp if you're into cool weapons, which of course we all are. It faces the store house across the mootgarth and is about the same size and has board walls and a tin roof. Inside racks divide it into half a dozen aisles one for ranged weapons, both long bows and cross bows. The next was lined with spears and pole arms and the one after with daggers and seaxes. Swords took up two whole aisles and the sixth and final one was dedicated to war axes and hammers. Shields, mail shirts, helmets and other pieces of armor completely covered all four walls right up to the ceiling beams. Like I said, a great place to browse.

Brody took Skander by the arm and pulled him towards the second aisle. "A shrimp like you needs a pole-arm for reach."

My mate, a true master of tact, I hurried after them. "Brody's right. I used a halberd myself until I got my growth." Skander's face cleared but he looked doubtfully at a nearly seven foot spear. "Of course there is such a thing as too much reach." I finished. We continued down the aisle. "Regular steel is no good against monsters and the like," I explained seeing Skander had noticed the bluish sheen of the blades. "This is thunderbolt iron infused with the power of both the High gods and the Earth gods."

"Sheers through metal, even stone, like a knife through butter," Brody enthused.

"Except when you really need it to," I said cynically.

"Yeah," he had to agree.

We ended up equipping Skander with a six foot glaive and eighteen inch seax (that's a kind of single edged curved fighting knife) in addition to leather practice armor and a blue and yellow painted shield. We walked out of the armory and right into Loki and Groa who judging by the way they pounced had been waiting for us. The former took a firm grip on Skander's arm.

"Time we found out what's going on with you, young hero," Loki said.

I couldn't have agreed more.

…

Groa's bower stands on the shore of the lake. It's about the size and shape of one of our tents with plank walls and a sod roof growing a rich crop of herbs. It was dark inside, the only light coming from the smoke hole, focused like a spotlight on the empty firepit. Groa settled herself in her carved armchair facing the door, waving the rest of us to seats on the benches against the walls. She pulled her hood low to hide her face then bent to pick up the spindle leaning against the leg of her chair and holding it in the sun beam she began to spin, singing the monotonous staves of a warlock 1 song as she spun light into magic. Her song ended and she unwound the thread of sunlight from her spindle tied it into a loop and flipped it to land in a perfect circle on bare earth of the firepit with an invocation; "Skander Fetch come forth!"

Next to me the kid shuddered and started to tumble forward. I held him in place with an arm across his chest as he blinked dazedly at the figure taking shape in the circle of light. It solidified into a skinny girl with Skander's sharp features and bushy black hair wearing a shapeless blue dress hanging loose from her shoulders to bare feet.

"That's her, that's my dream girl!" the kid sputtered.

Groa and the girl gave him nearly identical looks of disgust. You know the look I mean, the one that makes a guy feel somewhat lower than an earthworm. The Fetch turned back to Groa. "You see what I have to put up with."

The sorceress nodded sympathetically. "It must be very trying."

"Hey!" said Skander.

Loki gestured him to silence, leaning forward elbows on knees to fix the Fetch with a glittering eye. "What makes this boy so important?"

"He isn't," the girl said smoothing her long dress. "But he holds the secret of the Sleepers resting place and that is."

"I do not!" Skander said shocked. "I don't know what she's talking about."

"I said you hold the secret, not that you know it," his Fetch answered.

"What?"

Nobody else seemed about to explain so I did: "There's a lot of sensitive information out there, Skander; precursors to Ragnarok, hiding places of magical weapons and talismans, prophecies and the like. One way of keeping and hiding it at the same time is to plant the knowledge inside a person so it gets passed down through his or her bloodline. A secret holder doesn't know their secret consciously but it can be drawn out of them by the right person."

"And by less pleasant means," the Fetch added grimly speaking directly to Skander, "which is what nearly happened to us. I could handle the mara right enough but then they sent a trollkona" she shivered. "I defeated her three times but if we had met a fourth…"

Skander swallowed, "It would have been your – our blood on the floor?"

"Yes."

"Grandma and Grandpa -?" he began.

"They'll be fine," the Fetch interrupted reassuringly. "The Secret is tied to your father's bloodline, not your mother's."

"So," I said to Loki, "do we want to know?"

He blew out a sigh between his teeth. "No, but I guess we have to."

…

"So where are we going now?" Skander panted trotting at my side.

The lakeshore exercise ground was full of campers cheering on two battling longboats and the usual crowd was loitering around the porches of the mead hall. We made a wide detour around a merrily homicidal football game (soccer to you colonials) and I slowed down so Skander could keep up, letting Loki and Brody pull ahead.

"We're going to Mimir, It's his secret so he's the one to retrieve it."

Skander thought hard. "Mimir was the giant who lived under Yg –yg…"

"Yggdrasil, the World Ash," I finished for him dodging a pair of hulking berserks going at each other with axes.

The kid was acclimating fast he didn't spare them a glance. "Right, didn't Mimir get his head cut off?"

I shrugged, "What can I say primeval giants are hard to kill." I came to an abrupt stop throwing an arm in front of Skander to keep him from walking under the hooves a troop of horsemen crossing the garth. As soon as the view cleared I pointed to the big ash looming over the camp. "That's Mimir's tree, Yggdrasil as it manifests in Midgard. There are other ash trees in Asgard and Niflheim all aspects of the Great Tree."

"Sort of like different dimensions," said Skander.

"Exactly like." I gave him a look of approval as we started moving again. "Our Norse ancestors didn't have the concept so they imagined the worlds stacked like pancakes or something, but in reality they occupy the same space in nine different dimensions." Thank the gods for science fiction. Skander absorbed the image without a blink.

"And in this dimension Mimir lives under that tree?"

"Not exactly under it," I admitted by which time we'd reached the tree.

We circled around a gnarled trunk about as wide as one of our tents and found Brody and Loki on the far side, standing together over Mimir's well. You're probably imagining a little circle of stone wall under a small roof and a bucket attached to a crank. That's not what Mimir's well looks like. Instead think a natural spring pooling between two massively humped roots before trickling away through the trees.

"Make the offering," Loki ordered.

"What's wrong with your blood?" I said reflexively but took out my dagger - it wasn't worth arguing about. I've got a permanent scar at the base of my thumb from all the blood-letting I've done over the years. There's no such thing as a free lunch – or anything else – in the mythological world.

I let a few drops fall into water. For a few seconds nothing happened then the bark of the tree at eye-level (my eye-level that is) rippled and formed into a broad, rugged face craggy and grey like the ash trunk.

Skander jumped back, "Whoa!"

Mimir's deep set eyes focused on the kid. "I am not a horse, young hero!" He's got a much kinder sense of humor than most Norse gods and powers.

"You're an Ent!"

Mimir chuckled like the brook falling from his well. "No, I do not herd trees. But I suspect Ronald had me in mind when he created them." His attention shifted to me. "What can I do for you, Wodensson?"

But Loki wasn't standing for that. He wouldn't bleed but he would talk. "You can ask this boy where your sons lie sleeping."

"I beg your pardon, Trickster," Mimir said politely, ponderously shifting his attention from me to Loki.

I promptly called it back. "This is Skander Half-Elven of Skye," I told the Tree putting a hand on the kid's shoulder. "He holds the Secret of where the Sleepers lie. And unfortunately the other side knows it. He barely escaped them."

Mimir contemplated Skander. "Ah, of course, you must be Duneyr's heir."

The kid swallowed, "If you say so, sir."

"He's new," Brody put in unhelpfully, "and not really up to speed yet."

Skander did not take offense. "You can say that again!"

Loki doesn't like being ignored. "Ask the question, Mimir!" he growled.

Our favorite tree gave our least favorite instructor a long, mild, nerve-racking stare from the depths of his woody eye-sockets then turned his leisurely attention back on Skander. "Son of Leod, where lie the Sleepers?"

The kid got the strangest look on his face then recited in perfect Old Norse:

"Dream wrapped lie they, under Ymir's skull dome

Mickleburg the great their bed-place marks,

At Austri's feet they drowse, the sons of the Great Ash

Well guarded is their couch, by coiled lindworm warded

Beware the Blinder, Fire's brother."

…

NOTES:

'Warlock song' is an invocation for raising and binding spirits. The modern English word is derived from the Old Norse 'vardlokkur' meaning ward-lock and referred to a type of magic rather than the practicioner.


	7. A Tour of Camp Madhouse

"What?" Skander said blankly. "What did I just say?"

Brody blew out a sigh. "Who knows, that's mythology for you – no such thing as a straight answer."

I looked at Loki. "So, do we really want to pursue this?" the waking of the Sleepers is one of the precursors to Ragnarok. Of course so was the loosing of Fenrir and that turned out all right for our side but still…

He shrugged. "Probably not, the boy is safe here for now. It would be an unnecessary risk."

"But what did I _say_?" Skander insisted.

"I guess you're right," I said, a little dubiously; "Mimir?"

"The decision is yours to make, Chief of Asalings," he answered unhelpfully, closed his eyes and turned back into featureless bark.

"But what did I say?" Skander repeated.

Brody was thinking hard. "Whoever was hunting the kid is probably watching the camp now. We could lead them right to the Sleepers. "

"Will _somebody_ please tell me what I said!" Skander demanded.

"Very true," I sighed. "Okay let's let it go for now."

"Hey, Loki!" Ivar Waylandsson appeared around the Tree looking annoyed. "You're supposed to be game-mastering for us, remember?"

Loki snorted and rolled his eyes but turned on his heel and followed Ivar, the two of them heading north towards Tyr's hall. I started to suggest we resume our interrupted tour of camp but before I could get two words out Skander had grabbed me by the arm and shook it hard.

"What. Did. I. Say?'

I looked at him surprised then realized. "Oh, right. You don't understand Norse yet do you?" He just glared. I thought a moment then repeated the kennings in English:

"Dream wrapped lie they, under Ymir's skull dome

Mickleburg the great their bed-place marks,

At Austri's feet they drowse, the sons of the Great Ash

Well guarded is their couch, by coiled lindworm warded

Beware the Blinder, Fire's brother."

Skander let go of my arm. "That doesn't make any sense."

"Welcome to our world," said Brody.

"Actually it does after a fashion," I explained. "'Under Ymir's skull dome means the Sleepers are here in Middle Earth not one of the other worlds."

"Mickleburg the great is New York City," Brody added helpfully. "And I'm guessing 'at Austri's feet' means the Lower East Side." My mate isn't the sharpest axe in the bundle but you can't be a Northern hero without getting really good at solving riddles.

"Probably," I agreed. "And a lindworm is a kind of dragon -"

"Wingless and breaths poison instead of fire," Brody put in. "Real nasty."

"But it's the last line that really worries me," I continued. "What's Helblindi up to in New York?"

"No good," Brody shrugged. "Maybe we should find out?"

Skander heaved this why-do-I-bother kind of sigh. "What's a Helblindi?"

"Who," I corrected. "He's a Jotun and Loki's brother –which is no recommendation."

"He's trouble," said Brody.

….

A mounted combat class had taken over the mootgarth and not wanting to be trampled or speared or stuck full of arrows the three of us detoured through the forges wending our way between smoke belching furnaces and steaming cooling troughs. Sparks flew as red hot metal was poured into molds or hammered into shape on anvils. New steel flashed, brandished by smiths testing for balance, and chunked into bars of iron or blocks of stone as they tested the edge.

Like I said before camp looks like complete chaos which it's not, quite, but it is pretty unstructured and it takes newcomers a little time to get the hang of the place. Skander was now kitted out like the rest of us in leather training armor with his seax belted at his side, his shield slung over his back and using his new spear like a walking staff. And he wasn't staring around him in round eyed shock anymore, just justifiable caution. It's important to stay alert around here.

We made it back to the mead hall to grab a late breakfast. The longboat battle was over by then and we found the winners inside sharing a second or third breaker with the losers – you could tell which was which because the losers were soaking wet. Afterwards we took Skander out to the porch and showed him the schedule-board; a big slab of wood with a scraped sheepskin pegged to it.

The skin is ruled horizontally into nine sections labeled First Light; Sun Up; Sun Rising; Fore Noon; Noontide; After Noon; Sun Setting; Sun Down; Last Light – we're not much for exact times here. Each section is filled with dozens of activities; some written large and neat others scribbled small and squeezed in wherever they would fit meaning the schedule board isn't the easiest thing in the world to read. As usual a number of campers were standing around studying it with others sitting on the benches and steps of the porch killing time as they waited for their next activity to start.

"Wow, you guys sure keep busy," Skander said scanning the skin. "Who makes up this thing anyway?"

"Everybody and anybody," I answered and pointed out an item in Tyr's bold writing signed by his arrow shaped rune in the 'Sun Rising' block. "The instructors set what you might call the official schedule of classes and training exercises and the rest of us fill in unofficial activities," I shifted my finger, "Here's the football game we saw earlier, we have a soccer league -".

"Also Field Hockey and Baseball," Brody put in.

"And there's the ship combat." I continued, "And the RPG Loki was supposed to be mastering -"

"You guys play table-top games?" Skander interrupted sounding kind of disbelieving.

"Oh yeah," Brody answered cheerfully.

"It's good training in strategy and tactics," I explained, "Especially with Loki running the game." I led the way off the porch towards a neighboring building. "This is the main gamer hangout, Tyr's Hall."

"I thought that was Tyr's Hall?" Skander said hooking a thumb over his shoulder.

"His mead hall, this is his living hall."

The doors, carved in a pattern of crossed swords, stood open. We passed down a short passage between two little store rooms into the hall proper. Candles were lit to supplement the light from the open doors, smoke hole and numerous small windows. Everything from 'tafl' (Viking Chess) to Warhammer Fantasy was being played at the long tables on either side of the cobbled section of floor around a cold firepit.

I pointed out the curtained berths behind the tables. "New campers sleep here and train with Tyr until they're chosen by a war band," I explained. "I've short circuited that by taking you as my armor bearer – you can refuse by the way -"

"No," Skander said hastily.

"Fine, that makes me responsible for your training."

"In how to use this," Skander said raising his spear slightly.

"That's only part of it," I told him. "You have to learn ship handling, enough smithcraft to repair your own weapons, Runecraft-"

"And yards and yards of sagas and poetry." Brody put in.

"In old Norse?" Skander guessed.

"You got it," my mate said gloomily.

"The language comes easier than you'd think," I said as we went out. "And you just need a good memory for the lore."

"You won't have any problems," Brody told the kid. "Half-Alfar soak it up like sponges."

Skander looked like he doubted that but Brody was absolutely right, and a more than a little envious. Thor's kids tend to have problems with the more academic side of heroing.

We crossed the lakeside meadow careful to avoid a class of new campers being put through intermediate sword drill by Tyr and a group of Berserkers getting their arses handed to them by a handful of pretty Flidrirekkr girls (have I mentioned how much that hurts?). I missed a step spotting a pair of duelers squaring off on a staked out cloak then identified them as Svinfylking and moved on. Not my problem.

"That's Gefjon's hall," Brody said pointing out a long wooden building at the other end of the meadow, "The big girls' hangout. You want to keep well clear of there."

"Don't exaggerate, Brody," I was beginning when Trudi called to us from the doorway.

"Just the guys I'm looking for! Get yourselves in here."

"Why?" Brody asked suspiciously.

She rolled her eyes. "It's okay, I'm _inviting_ you. You want to see this, promise."

Brody's excessive caution re: the girls' hangout is based on a seriously ill-advised prank that went _very_ wrong from the Berserkers' point of view. Actually there's no reason at all for a guy not to go into Gefjon's hall, if he's got cause, though I'll admit you feel pretty conspicuous when you do.

The enclosed porch, as usual, was full of girls sitting on the benches under the windows on either side with their tongues going as fast as their spindles as they talked and spun. Trudi led us through the inner door into a hugely long room with looms all along the walls including the two enormous ones against the end gable where they make the sails for the longboats. Gefjon was there, teaching a class of beginning weavers, and the usual number of girls working at various projects. One of the two tables was completely covered with an incredibly long piece of embroidery, think the Bayeaux tapestry but with much better perspective, Fenrir and Dagny were standing over it, studying the pictures.

"What's this?" Skander asked curiously. "I mean I can see it's a tapestry but what's it about?"

There wasn't exactly a simple answer to that. The last several years had been rather full ones with the Jotnar working towards Ragnarok and us working frantically to stop them. It had all finally come to a head last December in a huge battle before the gates of Utgard. It was hard to know where to begin.

Hard for me that is. Brody didn't have any problem at all. "A big honking battle we fought last winter. Look, there I am wrestling Jokul." He pointed to two giant bears, one embroidered in white wool, the other in brown, rolled together in a ball. I grimaced remembering the blizzard of fur and blood. It looked a lot tidier in needlework.

"And there's Dane cutting Utgard-Loki down to size," said Dagny pointing to a little embroidery me facing a huge, hulking giant.

"Cool," said Skander.

"It really wasn't," I said grimly.

Trudi rolled her eyes. "Ignore old Misery-guts," she told the kid. "He's always like this."

"Anybody'd think he didn't like fighting," Brody added.

"I love it," I answered. "It's the clearing up afterward that depresses me."

Trudi understood – sort of – she'd lost her share of campers too. "Valhalla is where we're all going," she reminded me, "When doesn't matter much."

"Valhalla's amazing," Brody told the kid.

"So is Middle Earth." I said.


End file.
